The Legacy of the Mountain
by Chrome Hearts
Summary: This is by no means a tale of love, romance and trust which is so easily –and foolishly- thrown away. Instead is a tale of courage, defiance, a war to change a nation and a legacy that will be passed on through the dwarvish dynasty for centuries to come.
1. Prologue

_New story, attempting a new writing style. Yeah._

_Prologue_

This is a tale of long ago, one that takes place deep within the rocky fortress of Erebor which lay in the heart of the Lonely Mountain.  
Hidden deep within the city of Erebor's great walls lies a multitude of treasures, precious stones and gold – all things of value to the dwarves who live within the great city.  
With its warm hearths, many tankards of ale and endless supplies of meats, cakes and pies – Erebor is as welcoming on the inside as any other grand city, be that inside of a mountain or not.  
For those who resided outside of Erebor's protective walls, the city was an impenetrable fortress – one that would not fall to the might of the axe, sword nor any warped, evil entity that thrived on power and bloodshed.  
As such, Erebor and the accompanying city of Dale provided the perfect safe-haven for those in need. For Esrëndal, a half-elven who had long ago left her peaceful fjord-side home town of Tharbad, the promise of safety and plentiful work found in Dale drew her in. Making a name for herself as a common scribe, it wasn't long before her lucid, elegant script drew the attention of Erebor's great King, Thror, and Esrëndal was, once again, left with no choice but to leave her home and move, this time deep into the heart of the Lonely Mountains where she was to become scribe to none other than the King under the Mountain.  
However, I must warn you; this is by no means a tale of love, romance and trust which is so easily –and foolishly- thrown away. Instead is a tale of courage, defiance, a war to change a nation and a legacy that will be passed on through the dwarvish dynasty for centuries to come.


	2. The King, the Scribe and the Prince

_One  
The King, the Scribe and the young dwarf Prince_

Our story begins inside a small space deep inside a mountain. It was by no means a cave, instead, the rock-walls were smooth and highly polished – only those who were incredibly gifted stonemasons were capable of creating something so beautiful.

Elegant furnishings of wonderfully carved marble lay scattered around the room - a desk lay in the far corner its surface littered with countless piles of paper, ink, quills, and abacus. A small chair, also carved from the smooth stone was neatly tucked underneath, a soft, grey cushion was perched atop and looked nothing short of worn.

Resting, tucked up against the longest wall lay single bed, crafted much from the same material as the other furnishings with runes etched into the bedhead, decorated with copper. The bed itself, surprisingly comfortable for one made of hard marble was complete with a soft, goose-feather pillow and piles of thick, woolen blankets to ward off the never-ending chill.

This was far from any sort of cave you would stumble upon in the wilderness. It was a room; a bedchamber, to be precise, and one of hundreds that were sculpted into the inside of the Lonely Mountain. This particular room, unlike the rest of the carved spaces that littered the hallways of Erebor like a marble labyrinth (on and on the bedchambers wound, twisting and turning – branching off into washrooms, drawing rooms and simple rooms just filled with chairs where Erebor's occupants could laugh and drink) was home to a figure one would not expect to see in a Dwarvish kingdom.

The room was home to Esrëndal, a Half-elven – Thror's very own scribe. A very odd sight it was indeed to find an elf living underground; odd as it was, however, the scribe had taken a liking to Erebor's warm hearths and bustling, friendly environment.

A small lump draped with woolen blankets began to stir, arms fighting against the thick, tangled material before they surfaced. A small head followed shortly after and the figure sat upright – her long, curly blonde hair fanning out over her shoulders as she straightened herself up. Lacing her milky white fingers together, she flexed them out in front of her – her back arched, her shoulders rolling backwards.

Swinging her legs around over the side of her bed, Esrëndal could feel the coldness of the stone floor – even through her mismatched knitted bed socks-creeping up through her lower body. Shivering slightly, and with the aid of the low temperatures in her bedchamber, the elf felt her body wake up, fluid movement returning to her arms and legs.

As Esrëndal got to her feet, she quickly crossed the cold floor to the large wooden wardrobe, blackened with age, her long, milky fingers making quick work of the latch and the doors swung open. There, in front of her hung a dozen knitted, long sleeved dresses of varying colours – each one, hand sewn, complete with their own unique embroidery and lace, for the dwarvish females were, along with most crafts, incredibly skilled tailors.

Shrugging out of her nightdress, Esrëndal stepped away from the warm fabric – her body being enveloped by the chilly air. Quickly wrapping her fingertips around a moss green dress, she pulled it from its hanger and stepped into it, her body beginning to warm as the half dozen thick layers of fabric wrapped around her. Quickly fastening the brass buttons on the dress' bodice, Esrëndal quickly moved back over to her bed to relieve her feet from the cold floor.

Taking a seat on the comfortable surface of her –still warm, and very inviting- bed, she leaned over the side, her hand disappearing into the darkness beneath, returning seconds later with her soft leather boots.

In a few moments, the warm leather shoes were on the elfs feet and she was halfway down the carved hallway, beginning the particularly long journey through the twisting network of corridors to the dining hall.

Thinking of nothing more than a nice cup of tea and perhaps a delicious seed-cake, Esrëndal picked up her pace as she made her way through the hallways, now bustling with dwarves who were, much as she was, very eager for their breakfast.

"If ye don't hurry up now, lass," a particularly gnarled dwarf called to her as he headed down the hallway as fast as his short legs would carry him, "all the sausages will be gone!"

Esrëndal offered the dwarf a small smile as he scuttled away, his long orange beard wagging this way and that as he went. She didn't really care for sausages of any kind and, whenever possible –which was quite difficult, especially in Erebor- didn't eat meat Cakes were as good as it got for her, or cheese and fruit of any assortment. However, as most of Erebor's dining consisted of countless courses of meat… She'd grown mildly fond of pork-belly pie.

The inviting warmth of the dining hall wafted down the corridor towards the elf and she breathed in deeply; a mix of aromas, lamb, beef, sausage and bacon hung quite prominently in the air, but as did the delicate scent of tea leaves, brewing away in the great iron teapots of Erebor's dining halls.

The roar of laughter and many voices echoed from every corner of the great city during meal times – quite lively events they were and, of course, dining with well over six hundred dwarves was certainly eventful.  
Ducking flying tankards as she walked the length of the enormous table, Esrëndal breathed out a contented sigh. There, in her usual spot was a seed-cake, still piping hot, a large, tea-filled tankard sat next to it.

Quickly stepping over the wooden bench, the elf sat down, smiling around at those of whom she had grown quite acquainted to. Gloin, the King's treasurer grinned at her as she adjusted herself on the bench, quickly reaching for the seed-cake.

"Thought yer'd miss out on breakfast," he said, several small chunks of bacon rind clung in his beard. "So, we saved yer some cakes and tea."

"Thank you," Esrëndal said with a nod of her head before she launched into conversation with the treasurer and secretary. As the kings own, they got to sit a lot farther up the table than most others who worked in the mountains heart, mining away.

Pausing from conversation to take a long sip of her hot tea, Esrandal glanced up to where the King was situated – his booming laugh echoing above the rest of those in the dining hall- several smaller chairs surrounding him.

On his left sat his wife, a middle-aged dwarf with the most glorious beard – long and braided elaborately -and his son, Thrain. On his right sat his two brothers, Fror and Gror, who hooted enthusiastically at one another as they gulped down their tankards of ale, burps ripping forth from the pairs throats.

Thror's grandson, Thorin, a dwarf at the young age of eighty-four sat beside his father, his younger brother Frerin and sister, Dís of who flattened the fur on her coat in a bored manner.

Breakfast, as wonderful an event it was, ended soon enough. Grabbing the last –now cooled- seed-cake from a metal platter, Esrëndal tucked it away in her dress pocket for a tea-break, before making her way to King Thror, Gloin at her side.

As she and Gloin bowed before him, Thror's lips tugged upwards into a smile before addressing them both.

"Gloin," he said, his voice was loud and hearty, "You will be coming with me. We have got some expenditures to discuss."

"Right yer are Milord," said Gloin. Quickly, he dipped his stubby hand into his coat and pulled out an abacus and a roll of parchment. "Shall we get to it then?" he asked.

Thror nodded once before turning his gaze to his Scribe, Esrëndal.

"You will be with my son Thrain,"said Thror, giving a brief nod in the direction of his –relatively tall, for a dwarf- son. "There are certain things the two of you need to document."

"Yes," Esrëndal said with a quick curtsey, tugging the layers of heavy purple fabric out to her sides as she did so.

Quickly moving to the young dwarf Prince's side, she offered him a small smile – one of which he returned.

"Come," said Thrain simply. "I need you to chart something for me."

_Charting? So that was what Thror was referring to?_

Esrëndal followed Thrain silently out of the dining hall and through the twisting network of carved hallways. They'd climbed a good deal of stairs and Esrëndal was quite tired by the time they'd reached the great library, panting heavily as she forced herself to trudge along after the unphased Thrain (who seemed rather amused about the elf's detest for stairs).

Leading her through several rows of packed bookshelves into the center of the circular room, Thrain halted aside a particular desk. Shuffling through a pile of – well-read and slightly crumpled -parchment, he froze, grunting at a particular sheet. Setting that aside, he went about sifting through them again, occasionally muttering things to nobody in particular as he worked through the stack.

After several minutes of the same action, he took a seat at the desk and spread the parchment out in front of them, side by side.

"What do you see?" asked the dwarf Prince.

Taking this as her cue to start reading, Esrëndal keen eyes scanned over the pieces of parchment, her lips moving but no sound coming out. Thror glanced up at her and he knew, by her astounded expression that she, too, had reached the same conclusion as he.

"It cannot be," Esrëndal murmured, ripping her gaze from the parchment and fixing them on Thrain. "Are you certain?"

"Would the documents lie?" replied Thrain darkly. "No, they would not. Tell me – what do you see?"

Esrëndal fell silent once more, glancing over the parchment once more.

"Reports," said the elf. "Accounts of… Dragon pillaging." She felt a wave of panic wash over her as she read of an account from a particular village beside an all too familiar fjord. Her old home – incinerated.

"Exactly," said Thrain. "And do you know what else they read?" Esrëndal chose to remain silent and, after half a second, Thrain continued, "they show how the dragon is moving north through Rhovanlon, unchecked, killing at will."

"But that means-!" said Esrëndal, she began to feel ill, her stomach churned. She knew all too well.

"Correct," said Thrain dryly, brushing his small beard backwards in contemplation. "The dragon could come here. One never knows where a dragon is headed – all they know is where it's been… And the trail of desolation it leaves behind."


	3. Downfall Decimation Disintegration

_**Two  
Downfall. Decimation. Disintegration. **_

When Esrëndal opened her eyes she was unsure of two things; where she was, or if she had even opened them at all. The normally well-lit bedchamber was shrouded in an eerie veil of black and she could not make out her surroundings, let alone her hands of which she held mere inches from her face. Her bed, usually comfy and inviting was stiff, hard and none too warm.

Everything was how it shouldn't be. Instead of listening to the scurrying pitter-patter of stubby dwarf feet as they headed for the dining hall, she heard absolutely nothing – not the loud snores of those who occupied the bedchambers around her, not their usual booming laughs that seemed to bounce off every surface of the mountain's interior. Nothing.

You could only imagine her alarm! Esrëndal pushed the woolen blankets from her body and swung her legs around the side of the bed. Groping blindly around in the darkness, she felt her way along the smooth stone wall towards the doorway. Out into the hallway she went, and still could find nothing at all; no trace of a chortling dwarf on the way to a hearty breakfast – no sign of movement at all. Not even the torches were lit!

Fumbling blindly down the hallways, Esrëndal managed to guide her way through the twisting labyrinth of corridors inside the mountain until they began to widen, leading towards the Dining Hall – that was a particularly difficult fete, even for a half-eleven of whose vision one would normally expect to be next to perfect.

The rocky corridors began to widen and Esrëndal found that, the closer she got to the dining hall, the more a pale light – one that started off faint, barely noticeable, now enough to dully silhouette the iron torches that clung to the otherwise bare walls.

As Esrëndal expected, the dining hall was completely empty – completely devoid of any dwarf.  
Where could the possibly have gone? A furious growl echoed around the empty hall and Esrëndal froze immediately, her keen eyes darting in all directions. As expected, she found nothing – no trace of horrid beasts of where the growl could have come. But that didn't stop the frightened elf from picturing what terrible creature it could have come from.

Soundlessly, she crept through the dining hall, moving her bare, frozen feet one at a time, her body hunched close to the ground in a pitiful attempt to minimalize her visibility to the angry creature that lurked somewhere nearby.

Another vicious growl echoed throughout the empty dining hall and this time, Esrëndal was able to work out where it was coming from. Whatever it was that had slunk its way into the heart of Erebor was hiding in the shadows behind Thror's grand throne.

For all Esrëndal knew, whatever it was could very well be watching her as she crept closer still and, she was completely unarmed. As the frightened elf closed the distance between her and the throne, she seized up several steak knives that lay on the long oaken table, drawing them into her sleeve. With any luck, the movement had been so subtle that whatever was lurking in the shadows of the King's great throne did not see what she had cleverly concealed. Well, that was what Esrëndal liked to think, anyway. And she was right. Whatever it was _hadn't _seen what she had just done.

The sharp knife glittered in the pale light as she extended it around the side of the throne, her body pressed up hard against it – her breathing rugged. Nothing had seized her hand and dragged her around the side of the throne, so she assumed that it was safe. The beast hadn't seen her. This would give her the advantage.

Summoning up what –very little- courage she had left, Esrëndal trust herself away from the safety of the throne and out into the dim light – her keen eyes immediately scanning the area, knife at the ready.

"Esrëndal?" the King under the Mountain asked, bewildered. It was he who had let a growl rip forth from his throat. It was he who had concealed himself behind his throne. His gnarled face buried in his stubby, fat hands. Resting in his lap lay the Arkenstone, small clouds of emerald and eerie purple swirled around inside of it.

The Arkenstone, many had noticed (but dared not speak of!) was poisoning him; his mind had become corrupted. There was a time where Thror cared about his miners; tinkers; toymakers; the output of goods. Now, all he cared about was precious metals and jewels – the Arkenstone, his ultimate prize and seldom left his sight.

The dwarf King had looked up upon the arrival of the half-elven scribe, his eyes full of wonder and puzzlement. "Good gracious," said he, "what in the world are you doing out here in your nightdress, girl?"

Quickly, poor Esrëndal looked down at her attire and flushed with embarrassment. She had been so alarmed by the eerie quietness of the morning that she had rushed right out of her room without so much as a dressing own! And now, she was standing in front of the King in nothing but her knitted nightwear, holding-

"And why in the world are you carrying a knife? Do you plan to kill me?"

"You know perfectly well I would never!" Esrëndal replied, and, in her alarm she released the knife from her grasp. It fell to the floor with a loud _clank_and slid forward along the smooth stone surface.

Thror's beady black eyes followed the knife (a Dwarvish steak knife is known to be razor sharp and could easily slice through the skull of an Ox with ease, so you could only imagine how much of a threat it posed, especially to one of great power such as the King under the Mountain) as it came to rest, blade side first, against his hardened leather boot.

"Esrëndal," said he after a few short moments of silence, "what business do you have outside of your bedchamber during times such as these?"  
Thror's tone was low; serious. This startled the elf and she took half a step back, her bare feet numb with the cold of the stone floor.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Thror exhaled, annoyed. "You know that I do not like to repeat myself, elf," said the King. "I explained my reasons to all last night during supper."

And it was true; Thror had indeed ordered every dwarf inside of Erebor to stay inside his own bedchamber. Esrëndal, however, was not at supper and did not know any better. Instead, she had locked herself away in the library to sort through more reports of the dragon rumored to be drawing nearer to Erebor.

"It's for your own protection lass," Thror said when Esrëndal had finished pardoning herself.  
"Smaug is a greedy, relentless, powerful worm. I'm not sure how far away the beast is, but he's coming."

Esrëndal shook her head; her long, wavy blonde hair fell in front of her knitted night dress.  
A fire drake from the south –Smaug- was indeed headed North, however how far away he was, nobody could tell, really.

"It could take months before Smaug arrives at Erebor," said she, none too politely, which, in the presence of a King caused her to pause for a moment. When Thror said nothing of her rude manner, she continued, "and in that time, we mustn't go into hiding. We could use this time to prepare! To defend!"

Thror lifted his head warily and surveyed the half-elven from under his big, bushy, silver eyebrows.

"Are you any good with a sword then, lass?" he asked doubtfully, although he could have already guessed the answer. A great battle against a fire drake was no place for a lady, be they bearded or not.

Esrëndal's determination faltered and she furrowed her brows as she looked down at the cowering King.

"No," she said after a while. "I am not a skilled swordsman at all, nor am I any good with a battleaxe or mace."

"Then what good would you do if we marched into battle against the worm then, girl?" roared Thror, throwing his hands into the air in exasperation. "We don't have any chance. We're better off remaining within the mountain – Smaug is not going to be able to break his way in!"

Esrëndal dropped her gaze for a moment as she took in what the King under the Mountain had just said before quietly, she murmured; "I am good with a bow."

At this, Thror fell silent; his beady black eyes glittered in the dim light of the dining hall.  
"A bow?" he asked at last, doubtfully, and Esrëndal nodded.

"I was born a long time ago in the northern most parts of, well, Murkwood as it is known as today. The elves who reside there are wonderfully skilled archers, and as such, I, too, know how to use a bow."

The half-elven took a small step backwards and bowed her head to the King in politeness; to let him know that she would fight aside him. Thror, however, gave the poor determined girl quite the opposite of what she was expecting. His fat lips curled upwards into a bemused smile, the top brushing on the underside of his obscured nose.

"A bow won't do you much good against a dragon, lass," he roared. "Now go on, back to yer bedchamber– and stay there! Don't forget to put some clothes if you feel like sneaking out again!"

Esrëndal let out a disheartened sigh as she made her way slowly through the winding rock tunnels towards the bedchambers; her feet were heavy and numb with cold. While Thror was her king – and a very good one at that! – he was an absolute coward. The elf knew why her King was so worried; why he held tight to the idea that Smaug could not break through the side of the mountain and into the kingdom. He was terrified. But, terrified for what? His people – more or less; that was second nature. But what Thror was more concerned about was his treasures of metal and gemstone. Things that one could not use to defend themselves (save for paying off bandits and those nasty thieves to the south) against something, especially a powerful young fire drake such as Smaug.

Parting the heavy wooden doors of her wardrobe once more, Esrëndal decided on a pair of thick, woolen britches of an earthy tone and a light cream tunic. If her duties were not required, then she may as well spend the day being comfortable. As she fastened the laces on her soft leather boots, the elf frowned.

Thror was hiding; he was scared of Smaug, the great and powerful worm of the south. If he didn't think about the threat that was quickly moving upwards through Rhovanlon and towards Erebor – incinerating all that crossed its path- then it wasn't actually happening.

The bile began to bubble up in Esrëndal stomach as a new thought dawned upon her. She was willing to bet all of the King's treasure that he had ne'er alerted those who dwell in Dale of Smaug's presence .

In seconds, the elf was on her feet and had already crossed the rather long, stone bedchamber. No; he hadn't sent word to Dale. They were completely in the dark and had no chance of fighting back against what would soon burn their great city to the ground. She had to warn them; she had to get out of Erebor!

There was only one road leading to Dale, and that began at the entrance of Erebor. After having stealthily made her way through the twisting hallways of Erebor and silently creeping past the guards, Esrendal let out a small sigh as the strong wind wrapped its way around her body, tangling her hair.  
Sure, Dwarves were accustomed to spending prolonged periods of time underground; no sun, or air.  
Elves, be that half or not preferred the alternative, relishing in the suns warm rays.

The souls of her soft leather boots padded quietly against the uneven stone road, the howling wind rippling its way through the long brown grass on either side of the road. The scattered trees that lined the plains' trunks creaked, their leaves ripped from the trunks and carried off into the sky.

Clouds of a menacing dark blue hung low over the plains and, as the elf glanced behind her, she was startled to discover that she could see no higher up the Lonely Mountain than where the great doors of Erebor arched. The clouds were moving quickly, too as the fierce wind pushed them along.

Cupping one hand over her brow to stop dirt and tree debris from obscuring her vision, Esrëndal squinted at the road ahead of her. She was about a half mile from Dale, and if she quickened her pace, she would be there just before eleven.

Hurrying forward as fast as one could against howling winds, she lowered her head, her sharp eyes fixed onto the unevenly paved road.

A fierce snarl was carried on the wind towards the Lonely Mountain and immediately Esrëndal froze, her keen eyes fixed on the large city of Dale that spread out in the distance. Watchtowers shuddered and crumbled as something very large – very powerful – hurled through them. Clouds of thick black smoke rose slowly up into the air, turning the sky to night.

A dark red glow quickly illuminated the city of Dale; the shrieks of those who could not escape Smaug's unrelenting destruction pierced the air – louder than the crashing of flaming blocks of molten rock as the cities' walls and watchtowers crumbled around them.

Esrëndal let out a small choke as she felt her heart tear in two. She was right – Thror hadn't warned the city of Dale of Smaug's presence and she was too late. The great Fire Drake of the South was far closer than they could have ever imagined. If only she had left earlier – lives may have been spared.

But what if the King of Erebor himself did not know how close really Smaug was? While she was willing to bet that every dwarf in Erebor could hear the shrieks of the townsfolk of Dale and the Dragon's snarls, she knew that they would need every sword they could get.  
Pivoting quickly, Esrëndal tore off in the direction she had just come and in the space of several minutes, she had reached the great front gate of Erebor.

Her tiny fists slammed against the unmoving door and she let out a panicked cry.  
Esrëndal's hunch was in fact correct – the terror unfolding in the city of Dale did not go unnoticed by the Dwarves of Erebor; they had sealed the gate and the elf could only guess how well reinforced it was. There was no way she could get in.

Shooting a quick glance over her shoulder at the burning remains of Dale, the breath caught in the elfs' throat. Smaug had made short work of the great Human city – it was not his goal. What could he simply gain from burning one city to the ground? It was too easy. A kingdom enclosed within a mountain, however…

A dark shadow in the sky, concealed behind masses of thick black smoke moved steadily towards Erebor – towards where the elf stood, unarmed; unprepared and completely alone.

The elfs first thought was that she was going to die outside the doors of where she had lived for many years; her home. Her second thought, however, was to move off the main road.  
Hurrying quickly around some particularly large boulders, Esrendal found a small crevice several dozen yards away from the main gate, one that nothing larger than a badger could fit. Getting down on all fours, she scrambled into it and pressed up against the hard rock.

It cut into her milky white skin but she did not care. Closing her eyes, Esrendal waited to feel Smaug's warm breath on her as he attempted to claw her out of her hiding place. Or worse, she will be incinerated where she was. Esrëndal thought for sure the great Fire Drake had seen her clambering around the boulders.

When no searing pain came to the elf she opened her eyes and ventured bravely to the corner of the crevice, peering out, and immediately, she had wished she had not.

The mountain trembled with Smaug's might as he broke through the great doors of Erebor, his long, heavily spiked tail disappearing into the mountain was the only glimpse of him that Esrëndal saw – the thick red scaled glittering in the fires light.

Esrëndal could hear the panic and mayhem through the walls of rock – exceptional hearing at a time like this was not something one would be proud of – and she suck down to the rugged ground, tiny rocks puncturing her palms as she did so.

There, hidden within a small crevice the elf sat silently, listening to the shrieks and agonised wails of her friends from within.

A deep voice was carried on the wind towards her – one that she could recognise.

"Help us!" they called.

"Thorin," Esrëndal murmured, scrambling to the corner of her crevice once more. There, up on the bridge which lead from the side gate, no more than four hundred yards away, stood the young Dwarvish prince who was helping the King limp from the Mountain – tinkers, toymakers and other Dwarvish folk scampered this way and that along the bridge trying to place as much distance between themselves and their once was home.

Thorin, unlike the rest of the Dwarves who fled the burning mountain looked in another direction – his free arm waving about as a signal. As Esrendal followed his gaze she let out a quiet gasp.

Above the bridge where the terrified Dwarves were escaping was a large plateau. Thranduil, the Elvenking sat atop his stag, his archers behind him awaiting the signal to defend. Instead, Thranduil surveyed the commotion below him for a few more short moments before his stag turned and the elves of the Woodland Realm left the frantic Dwarves.

"No," Esrëndal breathed stumbling forward out of the crevice. Why wasn't Thranduil helping? Why wasn't her kin doing anything to assist the Dwarves? "Wait! _Wait_!"

The Mountain gave another violent shudder and Esrëndal fell backwards once more onto the hard, rocky ground. It wasn't safe to leave just yet, she decided. Smaug was too near this side of the mountain for her to escape and one wrong move and he would have broken through the side of the mountain and ensnared her in his iron jaws!

Quietly she waited. Patiently. Silently. Until the light of the moon shone dimly through the thick layer of smoke. It was then that the elf crept silently out of her crevice towards the rocky plateau and great bridge that Dwarves had escaped along just a few hours previous.

Pushing her way through the long grass and clambering back onto the road, Esrëndal followed the tracks of the wandering Dwarves to where they would soon tire and rest.

Behind her, she left a broken kingdom – a massacre she could have prevented. The torched remains of what she had called her home for many years.

The great kingdom of Erebor had fallen.


End file.
